“I’ve heard that can happen. Hey, almost there, alright?”
I didn’t respond, but he stayed on the phone, breathing with me until a black SUV pulled up, headlights cutting through the rain.
Noah jumped out of the driver’s seat before I could even wave. He wore sweats and a Rampage hoodie, hair damp from the rain, jaw set. The storm had soaked him through, but he didn’t seem to care. His eyes swept over me once, and they narrowed.
“Jesus, Em,” he said, voice low and sharp.
“I didn’t plan the flood, Abbott,” I said, words shaky but automatic.
He didn’t smile. He took the trash bags off my shoulder like they weighed nothing and tossed them into the back seat. His hoodie clung to his shoulders, rain running off in streams. “This all of it?”
“Yeah. Mostly.” My voice cracked on the word. “My machine’s done for. Half my sketches too. I grabbed what I could.”
He paused. The streetlight hit his face, the rain tracing lines down his cheek, and for a second he didn’t look like the Rampage’s starting lineman. He looked like my friend—the guy who once helped me move dorm furniture up four flights of stairs and made it seem easy. The guy who held me when I cried about my ex in college.
“Get in the car,” he said quietly.
“Wait, why? What are you doing?”
“Em,” he said, steady but soft. That tone always disarmed me. “Get in. I’ll run up to your place to grab what I can. What unit?”
I told him and moved into the front seat, letting Sassy sit in the back. The blast of heat hit me like a shock. Sassy jumped into my lap, shaking off water and immediately fogging the windows. The car smelled faintly like coffee and leather. Noah’s phone was still open on the console, GPS blinking from my location.
Rain hammered the roof while I sat there, shaking. My fingers itched to go after him, but before I could decide, the driver’s door opened, and Noah slid back inside. He dropped another duffel at my feet—my pillow, two pairs of shoes, and one of my design boards wrapped carefully in a towel.
He was breathing hard, hoodie plastered to his chest. “That’s everything that wasn’t floating.”
I swallowed hard. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I did.” He started the car, wipers working overtime. “You’re not staying in a hotel tonight.”
“I can crash somewhere else, Noah.”
“I have an extra room. Too much space.”
“Noah, you don’t have to?—”
“Em.” He glanced at me then, his eyes were wide, almost frantic. They were darker than normal, wide and filled with worry. “You just lost your place and half your stuff. Let me help.”
My chest tightened. God, I’d leaned on him so much back then. It would be okay to do it one more time. “Just for tonight.”
“Whatever you need.”
I stared out the window while we drove, trying not to cry again. The city blurred in streaks of yellow and red, wipers beating steady. My jeans clung to my legs, cold against my skin. My mind wouldn’t stop looping through everything—my machine, my designs, the water pushing through my apartment destroying it all.
Noah didn’t talk. He didn’t need to. The quiet felt heavy but not uncomfortable. Like he knew I needed silence more than comfort right now.
When we pulled into the underground garage of his building, he killed the engine and looked over at me. “You okay?”
I nodded, my throat not quite working.
He sighed, his usual grin nowhere in sight. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
The elevator was warm, and the faint smell of detergent hit as soon as the doors opened into his floor. His condo was bigger than I expected—clean but lived-in. A throw blanket lay on the couch, a few toy trucks near the wall.
I hesitated in the doorway, soaked and awkward, clutching Sassy’s leash. “Are you sure about this?”
“Positive,” he said, kicking off his wet shoes. He motionedtoward the hallway. “Bathroom’s straight down there. Towels are in the closet. I’ll grab you some dry clothes. Please, go warm up. You’re shaking.”
